3pm, the Farm
The shortest way to say this, I’ve moved. It’s the 19th or 20th move I’ve made in my 42 years on this planet. You’d think I’d be a pro. I am not. This move was both anticipated and a surprise, all at once. I knew I’d have to move out of my apartment because my friend was moving out and I couldn’t keep the place on my own. The opportunity to move temporarily to northwestern Pennsylvania and stay on a friend’s family farm was too good to pass up. I also no longer wanted to stay in that apartment. It had served it’s purpose and I was (and I say this next part very much in hindsight) ready to move. That was back in June. It’s September now.
Because of this move I’ve shifted focus a little more towards painting. About a year ago I set up a studio space here in a corner of an 200 year old milking shed. I genuinely thought I would be here for a month, maybe two and then I’d move back to the Burg. I’d get some rest and some creative inspiration, then get back to the reality (getting a job out in the world again) that I’ve been dodging (successfully) for the last few years. However, that’s not what has happened. I’m still at the Farm (capital F) and I see no change in that for the time being. My dear friend Adam (what’s the word for greater than friend, but like also not specifically romantic/platonic, but also like family/partner, because that’s Adam (also, fuck labels)) is building a gallery/artist space in the huge barn on the Farm and while he’s doing that I’m painting and marveling at the absolute privilege it is to be living my dream of being an artist.